


How to Live 101

by GalaxyTea (orphan_account)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Fluff, Jamilton - Freeform, M/M, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 15:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13573155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/GalaxyTea
Summary: Alexander didn’t mean to do anything wrong that night, but he did. He slipped up. He blames himself, because why wouldn’t he?He can’t move on. Mentally and physically.Alex doesn’t leave his apartment.Thomas moves in next door. He reminds Alex of happiness, salty ocean air and laughter, although Thomas is thoroughly confused about Alexander. All in all, Thomas thinks Alex is really weird.





	How to Live 101

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovelies! 
> 
> I came up with a small idea for a modern fanfic instead of doing my homework. You’re welcome. 
> 
> I’ll keep this short and just let you read it -3-
> 
> *takes a bow* enjoy!

I moved. Not from one house to another, but from one side of the couch to the other end. I’m usually quite particular about where I sit because I like things to be to the left of me. I need to be able to see what’s there. At the moment, I was trying to listen to the conversation beyond the apartment door. 

The walls of my two-bedroom apartment are thin and covered in standard light yellow paint, but I still can’t make out the words on the other side. I can only decipher the pitch of the voices.

One is high, one is low. 

Feminine, masculine. 

And then I hear feet hitting the stone floor and the noise of the screen door as it slaps open followed by the bang of it shutting back into place.

Someone knocks on the door. The echo is small, but the sound rings in my ears. 

I could go open the door. But I don’t want to. That’s what I tell myself: as long as I stay inside no one can get to me. 

I press my shoulder against the door and grab hold of the knob. 

“Who is it?” I hate how my voice always sounds as if it might break. 

“Thomas.”

“I don’t know you.”

“No kidding,” He laughs. “I just moved in next door.”

I peek through the peephole. It offers up a long, distorted version of whoever is out there. It’s not the best view, but I can tell his hands are empty. That’s good.

Even though Thomas will eventually change from new person to neighbor, I’m not eager to get the introduction ball rolling. This kind of attitude is exactly what guarantees that, by the end of the month, Thomas will think of me as the weird dude with the long hair who never goes outside. I’m pretty sure that’s what everyone else in my apartment building thinks of me. They leave every day, and I stay here. They come home, and I’m still here doing the same thing. But right now, Thomas doesn’t know all of that, so I should probably open the door even though the thought of it makes my hands sweat. I pull it open a crack. A tiny crack.

Whoa.

Thomas is cute.

The peephole didn’t do him justice.

He runs his hand through his hair. It’s coily and dark brown. His skin is mocha, his eyes are questioning.

Something about the aura he gives off makes me want to stay near him. He reminds me of things I miss. I breathe in, relishing the aroma of earth and ocean and bonfire smoke.

“Um, hey,” he says. “Are you sick or something?”

I consider shutting the door in his face. How can he call me out so fast?

“Why?” I can hear the edge in my voice, the back-offness to my tone. It’s enough to make him straighten up and push back on his flip-flopped feet.

“Sorry. It’s just—it’s Wednesday. Shouldn’t you be at work? Are you home sick?”

Of course he meant was I physically sick, like with pneumonia or the flu. Not mentally sick.

“Why aren’t you at work?” I counter. 

“Because I’m moving in today and starting my new job tomorrow.” He says this like I should get it. “I can’t do both at the same time.”

I realize I’m not being the most welcoming neighbor. “Sorry,” I mumble. “I don’t do well with strangers.”

“Does the fact that I now live next door make me less of a stranger?”

“Not really.”

“Okaaay.” He runs his hand through his hair again like he’s frustrated. But also like he’s trying to understand. It’s the same way Angelica looked at me on Thanksgiving four months ago when I told her I couldn’t take the trash out to the Dumpster anymore.

“What was it you wanted?” I ask.

He shakes his head, and one of those coils comes loose and falls down over his eye. He shoves it back. “Is that your car out back with the tarp on it? It says 207 on the space number. That’s you, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Cool, because I need to unload the U-Haul. I don’t want to scratch your car. Can you move it?”

My heart rate speeds up instantly. It pounds through my chest like rain on the roof. Thomas can probably hear the fast and furious thump of it. I wipe my palms against my flannel pajama pants and grasp for excuses. I actually feel like I’m stretching up, reaching for apples on a really high branch.

“I can’t. I’m sick. I can’t leave. I can’t move my car.”

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. It’s my mantra now.

Thomas looks at me. Brow creased. Perplexed. “Wait, I thought you just got mad at me for assuming you were sick. Now you really are sick?”

“Yep.” I cough. “Super sick. And it’s really contagious. You probably shouldn’t get too close.”

He scoots back a couple inches. In the courtyard below, the sunlight gleams against the surface of the swimming pool and shoots a reflection at Thomas’ feet so it looks like he’s standing in a puddle. “You don’t wanna move your car?”

“I can’t.”

“But like I said, it’s in the way.”

“How about if you move it?” Yes. Brilliant. Good job, Alexander. Being quick on my feet is a skill I’m getting progressively better at as the months pass.

“You want me to move your car? You just called me a stranger five seconds ago. What if I steal it and sell it on Craigslist?”

“You won’t. Let me get the keys.”

I shut the door and grab the keys from the rack I hung in the kitchen after one too many mornings of frantically searching the apartment for lost keys. When I crack the door back open, my breath catches again, because he really is cuter than he should be.

Stop it, Alex.

I hold the keys up to Thomas, but when he reaches in to grab them, my body goes on high alert.

I flinch.

I drop the keys at my feet.

He bends over, calm and steady, eyes on mine the whole time, as he reaches past the threshold to grab them.

His fingertips graze my bare toes.

I jump back.

I breathe fast.

He stands up.

He straightens out.

“Hey, is the pool heated?” he asks. “Or am I gonna freeze my face off if I jump in?”

The pool. I try to ignore it. It taunts me. But I can practically feel the cool water sliding through my fingers and down my back as soon as Thomas mentions swimming. 

I imagine him yanking off his shirt and jumping in. Then I try to unimagine it.

“It’s warm enough, but it’s too short to get a good workout. And too shallow to pull off a flip turn. Plus you have to scoop the leaves out yourself.”

“...You sound like you know something about swimming. Are you on a team?”

“Nah. I used to be, though.”

“Oh. Why aren’t you on it anymore?”

“Because. Just bring the keys back whenever, okay? Or, if you sell it, bring me the cash.”

“I’ll get you a good deal.” He laughs. “I don’t back down too easy.”

I shut the door and hope my car will start. Angelica takes it out once in a while to keep it running, but it’s old. She’s actually threatened to sell it. She says I could use the money. I’m pretty sure she’s bluffing. For her, selling my car would be the same as giving up. She’d rather hang on to hope.

~~~~~~~~

Angelica and the other Schulyers hope I’ll go back to work at the office, rather than everything at home. 

I finish all my work online. Washington understands that going to work is just...hard. I can’t control things out in the real world. Cars turn corners too fast. Doors slam. People appear out of nowhere. It’s unpredictable.

I don’t like unpredictable.

Home is predictable enough. Until just now when I realized we have new neighbors. And there’s a guy like me next door. Well, not really like me, because I’m pretty sure Thomas actually leaves the house. He looks like he plays football and watches bands at crammed clubs with entrances in backstreet alleys that require passwords. He looks like he rides a sports car in the empty parking lot of places in town that have gone out of business or zooms down steep hills for an adrenaline rush. So not really like me at all.

Because he has a life.

I write and eat tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch every day.

Grilled cheese is nice to make. I like the sound of the sizzle of the butter as it hits the pan. It’s a reminder of how quickly things change. One second you’re whole, the next second you’ve melted.

I like to put extra cheese on my sandwich so it drips out over the sides. I eat on the couch where my laptop is in front of me and the closed curtains are behind me. I’m a shut-in. I’m unaware if it’s foggy, sunny, cold, or hot outside unless I’m specifically paying attention. Nothing changes inside my living room. I have my writing, the same lunch, and scheduled ten a.m. and two p.m. check-in phone calls from John or one of my other friends every weekday.

My psychologist visits twice a week.

Her name is Theodosia.

She has a hard edge and soft eyes.

She has a punk vibe, and she’s dating her opposite, Aaron Burr. He’s quiet, she’s loud. 

She comes on Tuesdays and Thursdays after lunch.

At one p.m.

She’ll be here tomorrow.

We’ll sit on the couch and she’ll make me put down my writing.

I hate that.

Sometimes Theo has me say things that make me cry. But usually, talking to her calms me down. She also checks up on my medicine to be sure I have enough emergency pills. I need them sometimes. On bad days. Theo can’t prescribe them for me because she’s not that kind of doctor, she’s a psychologist. My regular doctor gave me the prescription after he talked to Theodosia.

Today feels different because Thomas is next door.

I can hear the banging of him hammering nails into the wall. I can hear the thump of him bounding up the stairs. I can hear the slap of his screen door as he goes in and out, back and forth, up and down the stairs.

Thomas is next door. He smells like the ocean.

This runs through my head for the rest of the day. It’s what I hear as I drink soup and sift through Spanish soap operas.

I assume he’ll bring my keys back when he’s done hauling things inside. But when hours pass and he doesn’t return, I wonder if maybe he did sell my car. Or at least moved it someplace far away. That would almost be a relief.

But, eventually, there is a knock at my door.

“Who is it?” I ask, as if anyone else ever comes by unannounced.

“Me again. I have your keys.”

I flick on the porch light because the evening shadows have set in and I want to be able to see him better. He’s a bit sweatier for wear, but his hair is still dark and coily and beautiful in a way that makes me avoid eye contact. He dangles my keychain out in front of him on his forefinger.

“Sorry it took so long, but I put her back where she belongs,” he says. “That Bel Air is a classic. How’d you end up with such a sweet ride?”

“It was my grandpa’s.” 

Well, adoptive grandpa’s. Who I considered my grandfather was Washington’s dad, and since George was practically my father I went along with it. 

But I know nothing about cars. I only know things about this particular matador-red Bel Air because my grandpa told them to me one million times so I could commit the words to memory.

“What year is it?”

“A fifty-seven.”

“Your grandpa must’ve been one cool dude.”

“He was.” I smile and shut the door.

Thomas knocks again. He knocks loud and long. I open the door because I can’t not notice him. There’s something pulling me closer to the threshold, and I can feel it. There’s a tingle in my feet. I look down and see I’ve practically got one foot out the door. I yank it back inside, stunned that I even tried.

We stand. We stare.

“Why’d you shut the door like that?” he asks.

Thankfully, Peggy comes soaring through the hallway right then. Her arms are spread out wide like an airplane, no doubt to tackle me in a hug. Angelica comes in behind her in a tailored suit. Her hair sits in neat curls at her shoulders. Angelica is usually the one to visit me in the evening. She’s one of the few people who can. And some nights, like tonight, she comes with a pizza box and a movie to watch. 

Peggy, as I suspected she would, slammed into me with a hug. She was allowed to touch me. It was usually only women that I’m comfortable around. 

Peggy eyed Thomas with suspicion, still holding me in her grasp.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Thomas.”

“Thomas who?”

Thomas smiled nervously. “Uh, Thomas Jefferson.”

Thomas tosses out a handshake, which Peggy accepts, all while keeping her arm around my shoulders. 

“Did you just move in?” Peggy asks.

“Yup. From Virginia.”

Peggy nods as if she can use this information for later use. She rubs my shoulder, kisses my cheek, then enters the apartment. 

And then Angelica catches up, hands the pizza box over to me, and looks at Thomas. “Half cheese, half pepperoni. I know it’s not very original, but you’re welcome to join us.”

She brushes past him to get inside.

Thomas shifts forward, ready to make the crossing into our tiny apartment, but he stops midstride over the threshold when he looks at me. My eyes must be bugging out of my face, because he falls back into place on the other side of the door, feet firmly planted on our welcome mat.

“Nah, I better not. I’ve gotta nail a bookshelf to the wall. Earthquakes.”

He shrugs. We all shrug.

California earthquakes. We’re all waiting for them. We’re all waiting for things to happen that might never come—things that, if they do come, might not be as bad as the things that have already occurred.

“Angelica Schulyer,” she says, shoving her hand past me to grip Thomas’. He smiles.

“It’s nice to meet you, Angelica, I’m Thomas. Just moved here from Virginia.”

My mom throws her arms out on each side of her, accidentally thwacking the hanging planter with the dying fern in it hard enough to send it swaying under the porch light. “Welcome to Paradise Apartments, Thomas. Ain’t it grand?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I bet you didn’t realize paradise has a view of the Dumpster and smells like cheap perfume.”

Thomas lets out a genuine laugh that shakes something loose deep inside of me. I like genuine laughter in the same way I like the warm sun on my face, but I haven’t heard or felt either of those things in a long time.

“Well, good night, then,” Angelica says as she slips all the way inside. “You’ll have to swing by for pizza some other time. Right, Alexander?” It’s not a question. It’s an expectation. It’s a request to hurry up and have a life again.

“Um, right,” I say, rolling the knotted string of my daytime pajama pants between my fingertips. I stand at the door staring at Thomas. “Sorry. Those are just my friends.”

He shrugs. “They seem nice.”

“Peggy’s a baker.” I say. “Angelica works at a law firm.”

“My new job’s at a law firm, I wonder if it’s the same one...” I shrug, knowing it probably is. I give a short laugh, just because of coincidences. 

Thomas grins at me. “You have a good laugh. Like when you hand one out, you mean it. My sister is like that.”

The compliment throws me off, and I play it back in my head to be sure I heard him right. “Well, your sister must be one cool gal.”

He smiles halfheartedly. “Yeah. I think you would like her.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Well, I hope you feel better. My mom swears by soup. Do you have any?”

That makes me laugh again.

“What?”

“That was just really funny in a way you don’t even know.”

“Oh, well, then I’m glad I could make you laugh. Again.”

“Me too.”

I’m still laughing as I say goodbye and shut the door behind me. It’s a sound that echoes inside and outside of me, and it stops Angelica in her tracks when I turn to face her. She stands dead still in the center of the kitchen and looks at me, a smile creeping across her face. It’s quick. There and gone. And then she pulls a slice from the box and slaps it down on Peggy’s plate.

“You eating?” she asks me.

I nod and pull myself onto my stool at the kitchen counter. The stool where the sisters are to the left of me because they know the drill.

“Thomas seems nice. Did you talk for long?” Angelica asks. She’s fishing.

“Long enough.”

“I’m not sure it was long enough for him. He wanted to stay for dinner.”

“He shoulda stayed,” Peggy says. “He’s seems cool.”

“Yep, too cool for me, I think.” I grab a slice of pizza and turn to Pegs. “So how’s the cafe?”

Peggy launches into a story about a cute girl who stuttered as she said her order, and a boy who did as well. 

“The best part was that they were in line at the same time; they sat at the same table and kept glancing over at me!” She laughs. 

“What movie are we watching?” I ask, turning to Angelica. 

“National Treasure,” She says, watching my face light up.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t have an update schedule at the moment, but if I don’t release the next chapter by Feb. 10, please do come yell at me in the comments. 
> 
> Also, I will add tags as the story progresses. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and don’t forget to kudos <3 if you liked it!
> 
> *takes a bow*


End file.
